Truly, Madly, Deadly (10 page)

“I know, hon, but this is different. He really helped you, right? Maybe you should consider…” He let his words trail off, and Sawyer cradled her cell phone against her shoulder, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Maybe you should consider that I didn’t sleep well last night.” She pulled aside the front curtain, her eyes sweeping the bare street, the ominous-looking bones of the half-built houses surrounding her. “It’s impossible to sleep out here. It’s so damn
quiet.
”

“Language, Sawyer.”

Sawyer rolled her eyes and let the curtain drop back over the plateglass window. “It’s darn quiet, Dad.”

“Your mother and I just think it would be a good idea for you to check in with the doctor.”

“You talked to Mom about this? When did you talk to her?”

“We worry about you, Sawyer.”

“So, if I see Dr. Johnson and let him know that it’s too—” she paused, sucked in a sharp breath “—
darn
quiet around here and that I got a headache today from lack of sleep, you and Mom will drop this?”

She heard her father draw in a steady breath. “We just want to do what’s best for you. You’ve been through a terrible tragedy.”

Sawyer mouthed the words “terrible tragedy” as her father said them and rubbed her eyes. “Fine. I’ll make an appointment later. I just want to take a bath and go to bed right now, okay?”

“That sounds good. Tara and I have a birthing class so we’re going to be home late. We could always postpone, though, if you want us to be home with you.”

“You can’t postpone a birthing class. You’re kind of on a time crunch with that one. I’ll be fine, Dad. Like I said, bath and bed just sounds really good to me right now.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll call you again before we head out. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Sawyer clicked her phone shut and tossed it onto the couch, sinking down next to it. She rested her head on the stiff, new pillows Tara had picked out—some weird hemp weave stuffed with something hypoallergenic and renewable—and spied a mammoth spray of baby-pink roses on the kitchen counter.

Baby
girl
pink roses.

She groaned, snatched up her backpack and coat, and plodded to her bedroom. Sawyer had the water running in her attached bathroom (a plying perk of the new house), when she opened her laptop and dialed up her mom.

“Hi, Mom.”

The face that smiled back at Sawyer from her thirteen-inch screen mirrored her own: deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, a determined nose, but her mother’s face had a tiredness that tugged at Sawyer’s heart. Angela Dodd’s hair had always been a few shades darker than Sawyer’s, something that gave her a hard, no-nonsense edge in the courtroom; now Sawyer noticed the fringe of gray around the temples. It softened her.

“Sweetheart! I only have a minute to talk—I’m between clients—but I’m glad you called.”

Sawyer glanced at the clock on her screen. “Isn’t it almost time to knock off?”

Her mother smiled apologetically. “There is no quitting time around here. We’ve got a huge trial coming up.” Angela leaned toward the screen, studying her daughter. “You look good. Healthy. How are you?”

Sawyer cocked her head, rubbing small circles on her temples with her index fingers. “Seriously, Mom, please don’t fall into shrink mode.”

Her mother’s eyebrows went up, and Sawyer watched her pick up a carton of Chinese takeout and dig into it with a pair of chopsticks. “Shrink mode?”

“You know.” Sawyer dropped her voice into a high-pitched, saccharine-sweet tone that dripped with insincerity. “How are
you
doing? How does that make
you
feel?”

“Can’t a mother worry about her daughter?”

Not
from
3,000 miles away
. The thought bounced around Sawyer’s mind before she had a chance to stop it, and it left a pang of guilt—and pain—niggling at her heart.

The divorce hadn’t even been finalized when Angela Dodd packed up her closet and her office, and moved to Philadelphia. The offer—senior partner at one of the top law firms in the country—was epic; at least that was what she told Sawyer. It didn’t come as a complete surprise to Sawyer, nor did it seem all that different. Her entire childhood her mother would generally pepper her head with kisses as she walked out the door each morning, Sawyer with a bowl of cold cereal in hand and cartoons on the television. Angela usually had a cell phone pressed to her ear as she mouthed for Sawyer to “be good” and “listen to Daddy.” By the time she’d come home at night, hair mussed, briefcase groaning with unfinished briefs, Sawyer would be in bed.

It wasn’t that she was a bad mom. Angela Dodd taught her daughter to be strong and self-sufficient; she was nurturing and doted on Sawyer—when she was around—but Sawyer always got the distinct impression that her mother’s career, not her husband or her daughter, was her first love.

Sawyer swallowed hard, another memory of Kevin flashing in her mind.

They
were
stretched
out
on
the
living
room
floor, “studying.” Not a single book was cracked, but Sawyer’s lips were chapped and the feel of Kevin’s lips on hers, his fingers on her bare skin, made her whole body buzz. He pulled away, a sly smile on his face, and brushed a thumb over her bottom lip.

“I should probably get going. Your parents are going to be home soon.”

She
looked
into
his
eyes; the twilight breaking through the blinds seemed to make them glitter and shine. She shrugged. “No one will be home for hours.”

Kevin
wagged
his
head, his eyes still locked on hers. “I don’t see how your parents could leave you alone for a minute, let alone whole days at a time.” His hand dipped to her collarbone, tracing the curve there until Sawyer’s whole body erupted in gooseflesh. “I can barely get through two periods without seeing you.”

She
didn’t know why, but the idea that Kevin wanted her near him—that he
needed
to
see
her—was the most incredible feeling to Sawyer. Her parents had their jobs, their crumbled marriage, but to Kevin, Sawyer was all there was.

“I love you so much, Kevin.”

Sawyer shook off the memory, hammering down the disgusting need that sprang up. “I’m fine, Mom. Dad didn’t need to call you.”

Angela feigned innocence, and Sawyer shook her head. “Cut out the Meryl Streep. He told me he called you.”

“We talk, Sawyer. And we worry. Besides, Dad told me that one of your teachers passed away. I’m really sorry to hear that.”

Sawyer gripped her bedspread, pressing the puckered fabric between forefinger and thumb so hard her finger went numb. “It was an accident,” she said, her voice a hollow whisper. “He had an allergic reaction to something he ate.”

Or
was
fed.

Angela cocked her head, her eyebrows pressing together. “That’s terrible, sweetie. Is there going to be some sort of memorial? Did they cancel classes or anything?”

“Look, can you just tell Dad that you talked to me and I’m okay?”

Sawyer’s mother opened her mouth—to protest, Sawyer guessed—but Sawyer held up a hand. “I’m going to make an appointment to see Dr. Johnson, who will also tell you that I’m fine. But please, until then? I’m fine. I’m adjusting. I have friends and eat vegetables and don’t cut myself. And”—Sawyer pointed a silencing finger—“I’m not selling myself for drugs or sex or Beanie Babies.”

“Beanie Babies?” Sawyer’s mother shoveled some chow mein into her mouth and grinned, chewing steadily. “How do you even know what those old things are?”

“I pay attention in history class. Do we have a deal?”

There was a shrug on the other end of the line. “You certainly seem like the old Sawyer.”

Sawyer squinted at the screen. “What are you eating? Did you make your famous call to the Chinese restaurant tonight?”

Angela jabbed at her screen with her chopsticks. “Now I know you’re the old Sawyer. And the deal is you only have to eat vegetables until you’re eighteen. Then you’re a legal adult and can fill up on takeout and Red Bull like the rest of us.”

“Oh, the joys of adulthood. So, vegetables, yes, cutting, no, et cetera. Do we have a deal?”

“About vegetables? We made that deal when you were ten.”

“Mom.” Sawyer felt her nostrils flare, even though deep down her mother’s razzing felt familiar and comforting. Almost like things were normal.

“Okay, okay. But I want you to check in every day, and I want to hear how your appointment goes.”

Sawyer crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Doctor-patient confidentiality, prosecutor.”

Angela smiled. “That’s my smart kid. Oh.” There was an off-screen tone and Sawyer’s mom leaned toward it. “That’s my next client. Love you, baby, be good. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye.” Sawyer’s screen went blank and she sighed, closing her laptop. “Bye, Mom, love you too.”

***

Sawyer sunk chin deep in strawberry-kiwi-scented suds and blew bubbles, then rubbed her eyes. The house settled—
even
new
houses
did
that
, Sawyer assured herself—with a spine-tingling creak, then dropped into steady silence. Sawyer groaned, leaning her head against the cool marble slope of the tub.

“Note to self,” she said out loud, her voice reverberating through the sterile, tiled room, “unpack stereo ASAP.”

The bathroom was still, the tub water unmoving. Sawyer breathed in and out in long, supposedly calming breaths until there was a soft thump against the front door. Sawyer shifted in the tub, cocking her head to listen; when no sound responded, she cupped her hands and dug into the hot tub water, dripping it over her head.

There was another thump.

Sawyer stiffened, her heart and her mind racing.
Probably
just
a
branch
, she told herself,
or
a
bush.
Sawyer was able to comfort herself with that thought for a breath before she realized that there were no branches or bushes outside—just a desolate wasteland of spray-painted outlines of someday-grass and orange-topped landscape flags.

Despite the hot water, Sawyer felt a chill that covered her skin with gooseflesh. She stood up, snatched her robe from the hook by the door, and slipped into it. Her wet feet left damp imprints on the heavy pile carpet as she stepped out of the bathroom, tiptoeing to the landing, her breathing shallow and forced.

“Hello?”

There was no answer.

Sawyer leaned over the staircase, her fingers wrapping tightly around the banister. She swallowed. “Dad? Tara?”

The silence of the house pressed against Sawyer’s chest and her stomach played the accordion while her breath hitched in a throaty rasp. She silently prayed for the comforting noises of a populated neighborhood—car alarms, children shrieking, a thumping car stereo bass.

But there was nothing but the silence.

Had Sawyer been wearing pants she might have peed them when she heard the knock on the front door. It was determined, insistent, loud. The hollow sound bounced off the house’s high ceilings and half-furnished rooms. She ran downstairs and pressed her eye to the door’s peephole, her heart thundering against her chest the whole time. Finally she sighed—a great, bone-jellying sigh—when she saw the dirt-brown uniform of an annoyed UPS guy, his head enormous and distorted through Sawyer’s fish-eye peephole.

“Yes?” she called through the still-closed door.

She watched the UPS guy check his handheld device. “Tara Dodd?” he asked the door as he gestured to the package he held.

Sawyer yanked the door open, tightening the belt on her robe as she did so.

“Sure,” she said. “Sorry about that. It’s just—” She shrugged.

The UPS man offered an easy smile. “I get it. Pretty freaky around here with all them empty houses.”

You
don’t know the half of it,
Sawyer thought. Instead, she reflected the man’s smile and said, “Totally.”

He looked over his shoulders. “You the only one who lives here?”

Sawyer quirked an eyebrow, half nervous, half fearful. “Um, no. My dad. And brother. Big…brother. And we have a dog.” She vaguely considered appropriating a growl or yelling, “Stand down, Chomper!” over her shoulder into the empty house.

“No, I meant up here.” He waved his one free arm. “It’s just, I’ve never delivered anything out here before.”

“Oh.” Sawyer swallowed. “There’s people,” she said vaguely, pushing more of her body behind the door. “Tons of people. They probably, you know, use FedEx or something.” She held out a hand, her eyes gesturing toward the box. “Can I?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” He gave her an embarrassed once over, took her signature, and pressed the package into her hands. Sawyer shut the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily until her heartbeat returned to a normal, nonlethal pace.

Maybe
a
dog
named
Chomper
wouldn’t be such a bad idea,
she thought to herself.

Sawyer blinked in the early morning sunlight as the morning show DJs cackled on her nightstand. She slapped the alarm off and sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and finally focusing on the spray of baby pink roses on her bureau. They were the same ones from the table downstairs, and Sawyer frowned as she passed them and stepped into the bathroom to get ready for school. When she headed downstairs, Tara was seated at the kitchen table, yesterday’s UPS box splayed open in front of her, packing peanuts surrounding her plate of half-nibbled dry toast.

“Morning, Tara.”

Tara pushed her plate aside, wiping toast crumbs from her swollen belly. “Good morning, Sawyer. Are you feeling any better? You were dead to the world by the time we got home last night.”

Dead
to
the
world?

Sawyer grimaced but tried to hide it with a friendly smile. She nodded. “Yeah, I’m feeling way better. How about you?”

Tara groaned, resting her head in her hands. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little. You don’t usually look so…green.” Sawyer felt bad immediately when she saw the blush wash over Tara’s cheeks. “Sorry. Is—is there anything I can do for you?”

“Short of delivering this baby, I don’t think so.” She began the mammoth job of pushing herself up from her chair. “How about I get you some oatmeal, hon?”

Sawyer felt herself bristle involuntarily. Only her parents—her
real
parents—called her hon.

“No, thanks.”

Tara’s face fell now that she was standing. “Nothing?”

“I’m okay. You should sit down. Oh, and you didn’t need to bring the flowers to my room. They’re nice, but you should be the one to enjoy them.”

Tara pulled a cup from the cupboard, poured herself a glass of water. “Why? They’re yours.”

Sawyer blinked. “What do you mean?”

“They came for you yesterday.”

Sawyer’s stomach started to roil, and she swallowed hard. “For me? Was there a card?”

Tara frowned. “I didn’t see one. But the delivery kid asked for you specifically. He said, ‘These are for Sawyer Dodd.’”

“It was a kid? Like, my age?”

Tara drained her water glass and shrugged. “Yeah, about your age, I guess. Why? Do you have a secret admirer?”

Sawyer’s eyes went wide, and Tara held up her hands then clapped one on her mouth. “Oh, Sawyer, I didn’t mean—I mean, I know you and Kevin were together for a long time and—I was just being silly.”

Sawyer took a step back, threw her backpack over her shoulder. “I need to get to school.”

***

Chloe was sitting on the stone wall that surrounded the school when Sawyer spotted her.

“Hey,” Chloe said, launching herself from the wall. “You didn’t call me last night.”

“What? Oh, sorry.”

“And I didn’t see you after school.”

“I went home early. I wasn’t feeling well.”

Chloe offered her a sympathetic look. “You know you can talk to me, Sawyer.”

“My parents want me to talk to the shrink.”

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Still?”

“Again.” Sawyer stopped walking and turned to face Chloe. “Hey, do you know anyone who would send me flowers?”

Chloe folded a stick of gum into her mouth. “What kind of flowers?”

“Roses.”

“No, like, romantic flowers or sympathy flowers or, I don’t know, ‘sorry your dad and stepmom are breeding’ flowers.”

Sawyer tried not to smile. “This is serious. And I don’t know what kind of flowers. Just…roses.”

“Color?”

“First red and then pink.”

Chloe waggled her eyebrows. “Two bunches? Ooh la la. Red is the color of love. And pink is appreciation.”

“How did you know that?”

Chloe shook her cell phone. “Information superhighway. So you’re loved and appreciated. What did the card say?”

Sawyer bit her lip and glanced at her friend. Normally, she would tell Chloe everything—every crush, every intimate detail of her dates with Kevin—but her admirer and the notes he left her felt bigger than all that. “No,” she lied. “No note.”

Chloe blew a bubble and sucked it in. “What about that Cooper guy? You said he sent you a flower, right?”

Sawyer nodded. “Yeah, but why would he send roses right after he sent me a flower?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to send you the flower. Maybe Meddling Maggie forced him into it. Face it: a buck is a small price to pay to get her to shut up.”

Sawyer thought of Cooper, of his shy smile, of the way Sawyer knew next to nothing about him. “It’s a possibility, I guess. Oh. There’s the bell. See you in choir?”

Chloe nodded and popped another bubble. “Sure.”

Sawyer was digging in her backpack when she bumped into Logan.

“Oh, hey, Logan. I’m really sorry. It seems like I keep doing that to you.”

Logan’s smile—and his cheek-pinkening blush—went all the way up to his eyes. “That’s okay.” He didn’t move, and Sawyer stared at him for a beat.

“Um”—she pointed over his shoulder—“you’re kind of blocking my locker.”

“Oh.” Logan jumped out of the way. “I’m really sorry.”

Sawyer spun her lock as students milled around her. She felt motion everywhere as she was jostled and bumped, but she also felt the stillness. Logan remained behind her, eyes boring into her back. She turned slowly, gripping her history book.

“Can I help you with something, Logan?”

“Um…” He twisted his hands in front of him, then jammed them into his jeans pockets. “Did you get the roses I sent?”

Ice water shot through Sawyer’s veins. She had the overwhelming feeling of heat and cold all at once. “What did you say?”

“The roses. I sent them. Did I get the right house?”

Sawyer put her book down. “You sent me flowers.”

“Roses. Pink roses. Just to say, you know”—Logan looked at his feet, kicked at the school-issue linoleum flooring—“thanks and all.”

“How do you know where I live?”

Logan shrugged, a small, shy smile on his lips. “You said it was the new housing development past the market. I knew it was called Blackwood and once you’re in there, it’s not that hard to find. Only full house in the place, right?”

Sawyer nodded, hearing the roar of her blood as it pulsed. “You only sent the pink roses?”

Logan stared blankly at her. “That’s all they were supposed to be. Why? Did they bring something else? I don’t have much money, so…”

Sawyer held up a hand. “So all you sent was the pink roses?”

“I’m sorry, I thought that would be good enough—”

“No, no”—Sawyer’s heart caught on a giggle—“sorry, that’s really sweet. They were fine, really pretty. I just—am a little—thanks, Logan. That was nice. You really didn’t have to.”

Sawyer switched her books and slammed her locker shut, shivering at the cold sweat that sprung up under her clothes.

“And I was wondering if…”

She turned to Logan once more. He was twisting his fingers again, the pink in his cheeks replaced by a flaming, all-out red. “Wondering if,” he started again, “you’d want to go out sometime?”

“Oh. Oh.” Sawyer felt sorry for the kid but the idea of dating anyone—Cooper included—suddenly seemed frivolous, precarious, dangerous.

And maybe deadly.

“I really appreciate you asking, Logan, but the truth is, I’m just not ready to date again. And besides”—she took a step toward him, leaning in conspiratorially—“you really don’t want to be with me. I’m—I’m a little messed up.” She smiled apologetically. “Maybe, you know, when I’m up to it.”

The smile didn’t fade from Logan’s face. He nodded at everything she said, and Sawyer recognized the look, the smile, as the pasted-on kind, the kind that a second-place winner keeps on her face until she can break down in private. Sawyer’s heart felt a pang of guilt, but when Logan shrugged and nodded, she felt better for keeping him safe.

The school day continued and passed uneventfully but Sawyer was still on edge, scrutinizing everyone who chanced a glance at her and jumping at the slightest sound, cringing each time she rolled her combination lock, pulled open her locker. She was changing for a lone run on the track in the nearly empty girls’ locker room when she heard the heavy doors press open. Sawyer straightened, that same piercing finger of fear tracing her spine.

“I can’t stand her,” she heard.

“You know she didn’t really care about Kevin. He was her ticket to popularity. I mean look at her; she came right back to school afterward. I was practically shattered and we weren’t even dating anymore.” Maggie sniffled as she rounded the bank of lockers and came upon Sawyer. Maggie’s groupies hung close to her, arms crossed, throwing glaring, challenging looks at Sawyer.

“Why do you care so much about what I do, Maggie?” Sawyer wanted to know.

Maggie batted innocent lashes. “I don’t know what you mean. We were just having a private conversation amongst ourselves. Were you possibly eavesdropping, Sawyer?” She wrinkled her pixie nose. “Such a bad habit.”

Sawyer pulled on her sneakers and slammed her locker. “Whatever.”

“You know Kevin was never really that into her,” Maggie said, her voice low but just loud enough to stab at Sawyer.

“Go to hell, Maggie. He left you for me. So, if he wasn’t all that into me, he must have been completely over you even when you were dating.” Sawyer crossed her arms in front of her chest and cocked her head, feigning sympathy. “Ooh, that must have hurt.”

Maggie’s mouth fell open, as did the mouths of her cronies. “You are such a bitch!” Maggie yelled, nostrils flared, wide eyes moistening.

Sawyer shrugged and walked out of the locker room, hearing the girls closing in on Maggie, patting her back and cooing, “She doesn’t know anything” and “She’s a totally jealous bitch, Maggs,” behind her.

When Sawyer set foot on the track—leaned in and let herself run—she finally felt free, felt weightless, felt untouchable. The strain of Kevin’s death, of the note, of Maggie, and of Sawyer’s soon-to-be stepsister poured off of her as the sweat started to leave her pores. Suddenly, she didn’t feel needled or pinned down, and by the third lap she was shrugging off the note and the flowers—a coincidence, she told herself—
an
ill-timed coincidence.
But no matter how fast or how far her legs pumped, Sawyer couldn’t outrun the tiny, niggling voice in the back of her head—
but
what
about
the
peanut
oil
label? But what about the “you’re welcome” note?

Sawyer clenched her fists and pumped her legs harder, punching at the air as she whizzed down the track. The heat that broke in her legs was punishing, but she relished the aching feeling. It made her feel alive.

No
one
knew
about
my
relationship
with
Kevin
, she reminded herself.
No
one
knew
about
what
happened
with
Mr. Hanson.

She was looping the track again, closing in on the bleachers, when she saw him up on one of the top benches, oversized coat on, hood pulled up. She slowed to a steady pace and studied Logan. He didn’t look up at her from his perch, just kept his head on the notebook he was scribbling on. He looked up once and caught Sawyer’s eye; she saw his eyes grow, his cheeks redden. He immediately dropped his head and his hand went back to his pencil, working on his notebook. Sawyer ran past him, but something weighed on her.

Logan was there when she left Mr. Hanson’s room.

But
I
didn’t say anything…but maybe he saw?

Her throat went dry and she coughed, her diaphragm closing in on itself painfully. Her legs seemed to spin uncontrollably, and she found herself falling. Her arms went out instinctively and she was chest-flat on the red clay track, dust floating up in choking clouds. Sawyer rolled onto her back, sputtering, choking, coughing. Suddenly, someone blocked her light.

“Are you okay, Sawyer?”

Sawyer blinked, then squinted. “Logan?”

He offered her a hand, and Sawyer looked at it for a beat before taking it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She was surprised at how strong he was. Sawyer brushed the red clay dust from her damaged knees and coughed again. “I’m okay.”

“Let me get you something to drink.”

Logan disappeared, returning immediately with an icy bottle of water. He popped the cap and gave it to Sawyer, studying her as she drank. She took a large sip and held it in her mouth before swallowing, the cold liquid soothing the ache in her diaphragm.

“Thanks,” she said, breathing out icy breath. “That’s just what I needed.”

“You’re fast,” Logan said, smiling.

Sawyer nodded. “What are you doing out here?”

Logan looked sheepish. “I missed the early bus again. But it’s not like I expect you to drive me home or anything. I didn’t know you’d be out here running. Sometimes I like to come out here and think or write or whatever.”

Sawyer gestured to the red notebook tucked under Logan’s arm. “Is that what you were doing? Writing?”

“Something like that. Anyway, I’m really glad you’re okay. That was kind of a big spill. Kind of a Logan-style spill.” Logan’s smile went from sheepish to goofy and lopsided, and Sawyer had to smile back.

“Thanks, Logan,” she said, “I’m really fine though. I just got distracted. I tend to bail when distracted. You sure you don’t need a ride home?”

Logan seemed to focus on something just over Sawyer’s shoulder. She watched his goofy smile falter, saw his face pale.

“Logan?”

He pasted on a smile again, this one far less goofy, far less authentic. “No, thanks, Sawyer. I’ll be fine. I’ve got to go.”

“Hey.” She reached out and grabbed the edge of his sweatshirt. “Are we okay?”

“Us? Yeah.” He still didn’t look at her. “I get it. You’re not ready to date.” He turned on the last word and Sawyer almost thought she heard the word “me.” But he was already halfway up the bleachers by the time her brain processed it. She watched Logan snatch up his backpack and hop down from the bench, disappearing into the slatted shadows beneath the bleachers.